


24 Hours

by decotex



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Gen, Slow Burn, some level of slash is going to happen eventually
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-25
Updated: 2015-03-21
Packaged: 2018-03-15 00:24:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 6,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3431099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/decotex/pseuds/decotex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eggsy has twenty-four hours with his mentor to prepare for the final Kingsmen test. He should probably spend these hours studying, resting, and above all, maintaining a respectful and professional relationship with Harry Hart. </p><p>Fortunately, it's not that kind of movie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently the director had to cut the scenes where Eggsy stayed at Harry's house because it made it look like they slept together. 
> 
> This is inspired by that.

HOUR 1

* * *

 

Harry Hart drives a Ferrari 430 Scuderia.

This surprised Eggsy, because he had assumed Harry drove a Bentley. He wasn’t sure why; it’s not as if he had ever seen Harry in a Bentley or heard him talk about owning a Bentley. It was just that Harry Hart seemed to exude a certain Bentleyness-a kind of shiny, metallic, refined aura that was either black or possibly a very dignified grey.

So when Harry pulled up in front of Kingsmen’s behind the wheel of a flaming red Ferrari, Eggsy couldn’t stop himself from staring.

Eventually, Harry rolled the window down. “Can you get a move on? I’m double parked.”

“What happened to all that stuff about being a gentleman?” Eggsy asked as slid into the passengers seat.

Harry gunned the accelerator before Eggsy had even finished buckling his seatbelt, and they shot forward with a satisfying roar at a speed that was almost definitely not legal. In spite of himself, Eggsy grinned.

Spinning the steering wheel with a flourish that was, in Eggsy’s opinion, shamelessly dramatic, Harry shrugged. “Gentleman can’t have toys?”

“I suppose. ‘Whores will have their trinkets’ and all that.”

This earned him an affected glare from Harry, which Eggsy supposed was the gentlemanly equivalent of saying one refuses to dignify that with a response.

\---

They arrived at Harry’s house around six. After the car, Eggsy had been half expecting him to live in a Tony Stark-esque mansion with an indoor pool and naked women. He found Harry’s house, which was normal-sized, British, and smelled faintly of lemon, to be a welcome relief (and mortally endearing).

Harry headed for the stairs as soon as they were inside.

“Excuse me for a while, would you?” he said, pausing to set his keys on the counter before climbing the stairs. “I’ve got some business to take care of.”

“Anything spy-related that I shouldn’t touch? Poison rooms or secret buttons that’ll kill me or something?” Eggsy yelled after him, eyeing a particularly suspicious cat tchotchke on the mantle.

“Just the car,” Harry’s disembodied voice called back.

“The car? It’s just a regular car though. It didn’t kill us.”

Harry appeared again at the top of the stairs.

“No, but if you touch it, I will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to update this regularly and quickly, I PROMISE. The only reason I'm not publishing the whole thing is because I'm pressed for time at the moment. I will genuinely pump out more chapters very soon though.
> 
> As always, comments and likes are hugely appreciated and keep me motivated!


	2. Chapter 2

HOUR 2

* * *

 

It was much later when Harry came back down the stairs. He had changed from his suit into a sweater that looked, to Eggsy, minutely less formal, but to Harry was probably the equivalent of an old sweatshirt.

“Are you hungry?” Harry asked from the kitchen.

“Shrikes impale their prey.”

“I-Excuse me?” He paused, halfway through the process of making tea.

“M’ reading your bird book.” He lifted up the hardbound book on his lap to show Harry the cover, which was titled _The World of Birds_ and featured, quite appropriately, a bird. “Says here that shrikes, these little fluffy things that look less threatening than J.B., impale their prey on spikes. Did you know that?”

“I did.” Harry said, sitting down on the couch across from him and handing him a teacup. “It is, after all, my bird book.”

“It’s fucked up though. They get a lizard or something, see, and then they pick it up and drop it on a stick. And it just lies there, dying, with a stick through its body, and the bird just eats it whenever it wants. Imagine being impaled and eaten at the same time.”

“Is this your way of saying that yes, you are hungry, and if your needs are not met you’re going to resort to violence and cannibalism?”

“No. Although, let’s be real here. If it came to that, mate, I wouldn’t be the shrike.”

Harry smiled, and Eggsy marveled at how soft he looked here, sitting on his couch with one foot tucked under his leg, hair a bit fluffier than usual. Maybe it was the sweater, or maybe it was the fact that they were drinking tea from tiny lilac teacups, or maybe, possibly, the cosmic scales had shifted and man in front of him was more Harry Hart than Galahad.

“What business did you have to attend to?”

“Pardon?”

“You said you had some business to take care of. Kingsmen stuff?”

“Of sorts.”

Eggsy set _The World of Birds_ on the table and leaned forward. “Oh, come on, Harry. Don’t hold out on me! Secret mission? Global scandal? Caught Merlin feeling up one of the trainees?”

Harry took what can only be described as a defensive sip of tea.

“Believe it or not, Eggsy, but there is more to my life than Kingsmen and yourself.”

“Right, but in this case it was one of those two things, wasn’t it?”

“Well, yes.”

They sat silently for a while. Eventually, Harry looked up from his tea.

“Want to see my guns?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Going to aim for 1 chapter a day, possibly more.


	3. Chapter 3

HOUR 3

* * *

 

“My guns,” as it turns out, was not a euphemism.

Harry disappeared upstairs again and, after a considerable amount of loud noises and a small amount of swearing, returned with two large metal cases. He sat down next to Eggsy on the couch, which was really not quite big enough for two grown men, but if Eggsy were being honest with himself he was a bit starved of human contact. He suspected Harry either felt similarly or had no concept of personal space.

“Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?” Eggsy commented as Harry laid the cases out on the table.

“Quiet,” mumbled Harry, doing something complicated with the locks. “Besides, you swear like a sailor.”

“Yeah, but you’re posh.”

Ignoring the comment, Harry flipped both lids back at the same time. Eggsy thought he was done being impressed with Kingsmen tech a long time ago. He realized now that he was wrong.

“My personal collection,” said Harry, looking for all the world like a proud mother duck, if ducks wore sweaters and if ducklings were guns.

Eggsy pointed to a sleek, chrome piece in one of the cases. “What’s that?”

“A genuine Roadster 522 prototype. Fires an electric pulse that stuns enemies, as well as regular bullets.”

“And that one?”

“An mini electromagnetic railgun.”

“What does that bit at the top do?”

“Oh, that’s the flamethrower attachment.”

“And that? Is that a bottle gun?”

“No, that’s a 1975 Chateau Lafite-Rothschild.”

“What’s it for?”

“Special occasions.”

“I meant-” And then Eggsy had to sit back and laugh, because for a guy who gave the impression of having the sense of humor of a brick wall, Harry was damn clever. He was smiling now, generously allowing a fraction of emotion to slip past his interminable poker face. 

Eggsy picked up the bottle and dusted it off. “This is a special occasion, isn’t it?”

Harry looked at him, and then back at the bottle, and then back to him.

“I suppose so,” he said, thoughtfully.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enter the heavy drinking.


	4. Chapter 4

HOUR 4

* * *

 

 

If Eggsy had to pinpoint the exact moment the night went tits up, it'd have to be somewhere between the second bottle of wine and the first bottle of vodka.

He had ended up on the floor for a reason that he couldn't remember but was sure made sense at the time, sitting with his back to the couch. Ever poised, Harry had moved to the large armchair and looked less drunk that Eggsy felt he had any right to be. He examined an empty glass while Eggsy talked.

"-and then my mum, bless her heart, walks in on us. And she just stares, but, but, Dylan's so shocked he falls off the bunk and lands on a fucking table-my table, by the way-and it cracks right down the middle."

"Jesus," said Harry mildly. "Your poor mum."

"Poor fucking Dylan, 'aight? He broke his leg. The table, though. The table was fine. Nailed it back together."

"At least there's that, then."

"Yeah."

Eggsy has a theory that everyone gets drunk differently. The worst are the angry drunks-he's had enough experience with those to recognize them a mile away, giving him enough time to walk in the opposite direction. Him, he's a friendly drunk. He's proud of that, in a way. He's a good drinking partner.

Harry, it seemed, was pioneering a new class of drunk, which was "basically the same and if anything, slightly colder."

"So that's me, anyway. That's my story. Got any good stories, Harry? Break any bones as a kid?"

"Broken enough bones in my life that it's not rare enough to warrant a story, I'm afraid. Or did you mean my own?"

Eggsy jabbed with his glass, dimly aware that vodka was sloshing dangerously near the edge and threatening to stain Harry's carpet. "Yeah, that's what I meant. Not spy stories though. Those don't count. We both got those."

Harry sat back, staring at the ceiling thoughtfully. "I broke my hand having sex once-are you alright?"

Eggsy held up his hand, fighting through his coughing fit. "I was drinking, mate," he said reproachfully, once he'd recovered. "Choked on my vodka."

"Well, you asked."

"Go on then. How'd you do it?"

"I think that's rather personal."

"Your hand. How'd you break your hand?"

"I punched a concrete wall."

"Why?"

"I don't know. I was distracted at the time. At any rate, I wasn't expecting the wall to be concrete."

"You'd better thank your lucky stars it was, mate. Imagine if it had been plaster. Suddenly a family of four is watching you through the hole you've just made in their dining room wall."

"Yes, I suppose that would have been worse. Bloody awkward as it was. Went around for a month telling people I'd fallen down the stairs."

"That's one to tell your grandkids."

"It is not."

They sat in an inebriated silence for a while. Eggsy's mind began the slow process of recategorizing drunk Harry into one of his favorites: "tells you sex stories."

"Harry?"

"Yes?"

“That was the douchiest car I’ve ever seen in my entire life.”

“It’s not douchey. It’s sexy.”

“It can be both, mate.”

“I-" and then Harry stopped and touched the rim of his glasses pointedly. Eggsy got the cue immediately, and slipped his glasses on from his pocket.

“-need you to come in,” Merlin's voice was saying.

“I’d be delighted to, Merlin," Harry started. "-except the thing is that Eggsy and I are both piss drunk.”

"I'm afraid I have to insist. If all goes well, this should be a simple retrieval job. A car will pick you up in an hour. Bring Eggsy." The line went dead.

They looked at each other and then at the empty bottles in front of them. Eventually, Harry stood up.

"Well," he said, stretching. "Suit up, I suppose."


	5. Chapter 5

HOUR 5

* * *

 

It tugged at Eggsy’s mind as the car took them all the way across London, and it wasn’t until they were five minutes out from their target that he finally figured it out. He blamed it on the bad lightning and the fact that he was currently, in Harry’s words, piss drunk.

"You changed your suit.”

Harry glanced down, as if to remind himself what he was wearing. “I did, yes.”

“Something wrong with the one you were wearing earlier?”

“It is possible to own multiple suits, you know. One of the perks of working for a tailor.”

It was particularly cold that night in London, and frost was creeping in from the edges of the windows. The driver, a silent woman dressed in all black, switched on the heater.

“Think I’m gonna pass the test, Harry? Become a Kingsman?.”

“I-I can hardly answer that.”

Which from a professional angle Eggsy understood, but a solid, “Yes,” would have been a much-needed confidence boost. He wondered, silently, if it even mattered to Harry. Hell, he'd be the first to say that Roxy was at least a good a candidate as himself. 

“Thirty seconds, sirs.”

“Thank you, Victoria.”

They pulled up in front of the Pinnacle International Hotel, and Eggsy tried to nudge himself toward sobriety through force of will. It didn’t work.

“Ever done a mission drunk before?” he asked.

Harry smiled.

“Oh, yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, I promise the next one is a solid length though!


	6. Chapter 6

HOUR 6

* * *

 

“What kind of asshole doesn’t attend her own party? What a dick.”

They sat at the corner of the bar, where they had been for the past half hour waiting for said dick to leave her penthouse. The gala was winding down, and it was becoming clear that Ms. Vanamo did not plan on making an appearance. Eggsy took his eyes off the elevator to scan the room, just in time to catch Harry throw back an martini.

“Really? I think it’s time to cut you off, mate.”

Harry ignored him. “Merlin, any progress on our penthouse invitation?”

The sound of Merlin’s determined typing echoed in their ears. “It’s private, friends of the host only. Looks like you’re on your own.”

The worst part was, it should have been so simple. Walk into the party, brush up against the mark, slip on a tracking device, leave. Two agents-well, one agent and one almost agent-should have had it done in five minutes, leaving the rest of the night to enjoy the free food and the group of attractive people near the fountain who have been eying him all night. Instead he was here, at the bar, with Harry, watching an elevator.

And then there was Harry, who looked like he couldn't care less whether they completed the mission, so long as no one took his martini. Eggsy wondered belatedly whether this was all part of his test.

“Right,” he said, turning to Harry. “I say stairwell to the top floor, take out the guards silently, then cut the power to the building, in and out in the darkness. Thirty seconds tops.”

Harry nodded. “Good.”

“Good?”

“Very good. Subtle, too. Creative use of the battering ram method.”

“Fine then, let’s hear your fantastic plan.”

He finished his martini (really, how was he still standing?) and gestured, with the empty glass, at the mark’s sister, sitting at a table across the room.

“Ever heard of a honeypot, Eggsy?” He set the glass on the counter with an unnecessary amount of force, gave Eggsy a “watch this” look, and walked off.

“Like . . . for tea?”


	7. Chapter 7

HOUR 7

* * *

 

It was well past midnight and Eggsy had taken his metaphorical hands off the metaphorical wheel. The metaphorical car was in the hands of Harry Hart who was, only slightly metaphorically, driving drunk.

“Have you really? I’ve always wanted to go to Vietnam.”

“It’s gorgeous in the summer. Bloody humid but worth every sweat-soaked shirt. Tailoring capital of the world, actually.”

“And the beaches?”

“It depends. Some are nice. French Polynesia, on the other hand-if you want beaches, you can’t beat Tahiti. I once-”

Eggsy muted Harry’s comms and leaned back in his seat. He hadn’t previously thought Harry capable of flirting, or even of being remotely friendly. Harry didn’t _do_ friendly-only varying degrees of cold. And yet, there he was across the room, regaling Marina Vanamo with travel stories of questionable authenticity with only a very slight slur in his voice.

“Turn back towards Galahad, Eggsy. I can’t see.”

Although Merlin wasn’t physically there, there was the general time-honored atmosphere of two men watching their drunk friend try to get laid from the safety of the bar, and also the implication of metaphorical popcorn.

“He do this a lot?” Eggsy asked.

“No. He once scaled a building to avoid going the seduction route. Not genteel enough for him, generally. I think he’s in some sort of mood.”

Across the room, Harry laughed and clasped Marina’s shoulder.

“I think that mood’s called alcohol.”

"Hey, you alright, mate?"

Eggsy turned. The bartender stood behind him, giving him a look of not unwarranted suspicion.

"Yeah. I'm just watching my friend try to get with a girl. Funny stuff."

The bartender surveyed the room.

"Bloke in the fancy suit?"

"Yeah."

"Better call your own taxi," he advised."That guy's not going home alone tonight. You want a drink?"

"No, thanks."

The bartender shrugged and walked away, and Eggsy turned back towards the room.

And then, Eggsy wouldn’t have noticed if he wasn’t looking for it, but Harry lifted his hand to cover his mouth for a moment, and Eggsy would be damned if he didn’t catch him whisper something into his palm.

“Merlin, what’d he say?”

“He said to turn up the music.”

“Why? Is this his jam?”

“Just do it, Eggsy.”

“Is he going to dance?” Eggsy asked as he lowered himself off the barstool and headed towards the DJ booth in the corner.

“I sincerely hope not.”

It was a kind of upscale DJ booth, the type that was an actual booth rather than just a fold-out table housing a guy with a computer. The DJ, who was clearly ready to go home for the night, eyed him warily as he approached, probably anticipating the seventy-first request for Daft Punk’s “Get Lucky”.*

"So what you need to do, Eggsy, is find a way to get under the booth in order to access the control panel. Your left shoe has a compartment with a screwdriver. Once you’re in, there will be a set of wires-”

“Oi! Turn the volume up, yeah?”

The DJ looked at him suspiciously for a moment, and then shrugged and accepted the fifty pound note in Eggsy’s outstretched hand.

“Sometimes you lot make everything more complicated than it needs to be,” Eggsy said as he walked away, feeling very proud of himself.

“Yes, well."

\---

Eggsy watched the scene unfold from across the room and through the comms. It was amazing, truly, how naturally it worked. In spite of himself, he was impressed.

“-only I was visiting my brother in Leeds-”

“Sorry? I didn’t hear you.”

“My brother in Leeds,” Harry repeated, slightly louder this time, as he leaned closer to her.

“Your brother?”

“My what? Sorry, the music is too loud.”

“I can barely hear you.”

At this point they had both leaned in very close to each other, and were both smiling at the awkwardness, (shy embarrassment was never an expression that Eggsy had ever, ever expected to see on Harry’s face, although he wasn’t complaining) and then Harry said;

“I would suggest that we go talk outside, but it’s freezing out tonight.”

And he had her. Game over. Eggsy had the sudden, inopportune urge to cheer.

“Would you like to go upstairs, then? There’s a small party in the penthouse.”

“Yes, that sounds lovely.”

The guards parted to let Marina Vanamo and Harry into the private penthouse elevator, and it was all so clever that Eggsy threw his head back and laughed (it’s the vodka, he swears).

“You’re a shrike, Galahad,” he said, as passionately and quietly as he could manage, aware that the bartender was staring but too drunk to care. “You’re a goddamn shrike.”

And as the doors closed Harry smiled and nodded, and to everyone else he was smiling at Marina Vanamo but Eggsy knew it was meant for him.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (*Disclaimer: I love “Get Lucky”.)
> 
> So this is a day late. I'm very sorry. I'm a bit sick and gross and for some reason had a weirdly specific case of writer's block.


	8. Chapter 8

HOUR 8

* * *

 

“You really cocked this one up, didn’t you?” Merlin said, conversationally.

Eggsy had so many responses, from strings of words he’d learned in alleyways to valid excuses (he couldn’t have _known_ that the bartender was in on it, or that one of the guys in the penthouse happened to be an Irish mob boss who had history with Harry, or that he would recognize Harry immediately and throw up an alarm, thereby prompting said bartender to get his large friends to throw Eggsy in a bloody _closet_ ) to the classic middle finger held in front of his glasses, but he was tired and drunk and the rope was chafing his wrists as he ground it against the sharp table edge, so he settled with, “Shove off.”

“I mean, really. It’s a good thing this wasn’t a test because it couldn’t have possibly gone worse.”

“I’m alive, aren’t I?”

“Yes, your single success.”

“No, not my single success. Because now . . .” He pushed down on the rope until the last few fibers snapped with a triumphant _twang_. “ . . . I have hands.”

“Eggsy Unwin is alive and has hands. Watch out, criminals.”

Eggsy grunted and got to work untying his feet. It was pitch black, but this was the sort of thing he’d been trained for (that had been a fun day at the Kingsman manor) so he made quick work of the knots.

“In your own time.”

“Alright Merlin, I’m _going_. Anyway Galahad’s not worried. Are you worried, Galahad?”

Harry had rather gotten the short stick, Eggsy supposed. He’d been handcuffed instead of tied, and also punched in the face, apparently, which broke the video feed of his glasses. His comm system had survived, thankfully, but his voice now had a tinny ring, like he was listening through cheap headphones.

“I am not worried, no.”

“See? We’re good here.”

“Galahad’s been doing this for a long time. He’s apathetic. You reach a point where you’re chained to a chair covered in gasoline and the flames are lapping at your shoes and there are seven sniper rifles aimed at your chest and all you’re thinking is, “Again?” and, “Shite, that reminds me. Left me bloody kettle on.”

There was silence, as Eggsy fumbled with the third rope around his ankles (what they’d lacked in quality they made up for in quantity.)

“Speaking from experience, are we?”

“No. Ask Galahad about France 2009 though.”

“Do not ask Galahad anything,” Harry cut in. “Unless it’s, “Would you like to be let out of these handcuffs?” in which case the answer is yes, as soon as possible.”

“Some super-spy you are, can’t get out of handcuffs,” Eggsy mumbled.

“I can, actually. However I’d prefer not to dislocate my thumbs unless absolutely necessary.”

“Jesus, isn’t there an easier way to get out of handcuffs?”

“Yes. Your backup comes and picks the lock.”

The last rope dropped to the floor, and Eggsy stood up and stretched.

“Right then. On my way.”

\---

Room 825 was unguarded. Eggsy walked in and stopped dead, because what Harry hadn’t mentioned, among other things, was that they’d handcuffed him to the bed.

There was a breathy noise in the comms, which he correctly interpreted as Merlin smothering a laugh.

And Eggsy knew, for all his dicking around the guns were real and he was a professional and their lives literally depended on him untying Harry as quickly as he could, but he still couldn’t hold back the shit-eating, cheeky, punchable grin that spread across his face as he crossed the room.

“Straight out of your fantasies,” Harry deadpanned. His hair was mussed and his shirt was untucked, and he looked, overall, like he'd engaged in some exceptionally ungentlemanly behavior.

“Not gonna touch this one, mate.” Eggsy unhooked the lock picking set from the heel of his loafer and got to work on the handcuff around Harry’s right wrist. He pointedly did not notice how nice Harry’s hands were, and he definitely didn’t keep a steadying hand on Harry’s wrist longer than he had to (it’s the vodka, it’s got to be the vodka).

“Oh, come on. I know you’re dying to take a crack.”

“Not a word.”

“Suit yourself.”

Harry managed a delicate half-shrug, handcuffs restricting his movement. The right handcuff clicked open, and Eggsy vaulted over the bed (and Harry’s legs) to work on the right. Harry gave him a look but was otherwise silent, flexing his freed hand. And then, a few seconds later;

“But-”

“There it is.”

“But Harry, I have to ask.”

“I’m literally powerless to stop you.”

“Is that lipstick, on your neck?”

“Turns out Marina Vanamo has a thing for spies.”

“Right, can I just-at what point do we consider this mission officially off the rails?”

 “Eggsy, the proverbial train exploded halfway out the station.”

The left handcuff clicked open and Harry sat up, rubbing his wrists. He looked noticeably calmer than before. Being chained to a bed had been good for him, although Eggsy couldn’t say the same for being punched in the face. The redness around Harry's forehead would probably blossom into a full-blown black eye by tomorrow.

“Right then,” said Merlin. “I’ve unlocked the service elevator which should take you to the penthouse.”

“The penthouse? But they know we’re here now,” Eggsy said, frowning.

“This isn’t really a ‘Well lads, we gave it our best shot. We’ll try again next week,’ type of operation, if you hadn’t noticed.”

Harry nodded, and Eggsy really hoped that his confidence was founded on something besides a large amount of alcohol. “Guns out, Eggsy. I tag the mark, you’re on suppressive fire. Smoke grenade, get out, go home, wake up tomorrow with truly impressive hangovers and no memory of this absolute _clusterfuck_ of a night. Understood?”

And maybe it was his naive enthusiasm, or maybe it was the vodka, or maybe he was just stunned into agreement by Harry Hart using the word “clusterfuck,” but Eggsy pulled out the mini railgun he had taken from Harry's collection and nodded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, so that update every day thing. Easier said than done, especially during midterms. 
> 
> They're still happening frequently though, and I'm shooting for every other day. 
> 
> Also, blatant fanservice. Harry tied to a bed. I am trash.


	9. Chapter 9

HOUR 9

* * *

 

The altercation, which had begun as a properly dramatic firefight, had devolved into an embarrassing stalemate - a kind of domestic bastardization of trench warfare.

The Vanamo sisters and their Irish mob compatriots were backed against the panoramic windows on the far side of the room, taking cover behind an overturned orange pleather couch (which, in Eggsy’s opinion, deserved every bullet). Eggsy and Harry were, very appropriately, camped out behind the bar.

A returning fire shot hit a bottle of wine, which exploded over the two of them.

_“Fuck.”_

Normally it wouldn’t have been much of a fight. Even at a disadvantage of six to two, Eggsy was pretty sure that either of them alone could have killed everyone in the room. The issue was that they weren’t shooting to kill, while the mobsters clearly had no such restrictions.

Their mark, Lucia Vanamo, had started crying at some point, which Eggsy felt a little bad about. The fact that her men were trying to kill him made him feel less bad.

And then there was Marina Vanamo, who was not helping.

“Escaped those handcuffs, did you? Give me another chance, I’ll do’em tighter next time.”

“Miss, please. Keep your head down,” said someone, a bit desperately.

“It’s fine, he won’t shoot me. He _likes_ me. We have a _connection_.”

Eggsy looked at Harry who was in the process of reloading, strategically allowing him to avoid meeting Eggsy’s eyes.

“Connected with her, did you?”

“Shut up.”

“Connected with her all over the elevator, I bet.”

“No.”

“Hope you cleaned up after yourselves. Can’t have anyone slipping in all that connection.”

_“Honestly.”_

Harry stretched upwards and swung his gun over the counter to fire off six quick shots. From the sound of shattering glass, Eggsy guessed that the floor-to-ceiling windows were now more like floor-to-ceiling easy access doors to your death by high-velocity impact.

“Police ETA is ten minutes. Now or never.”

“Got it.”

Merlin was generally giving them free range of the whole fighting bit, silent except for infrequent updates on their timeframe. Eggsy liked to think that he was carefully monitoring their progress via computer and formulating an exit plan, although he could have just as likely have been playing Sudoku.

Something black and small lept from the bar counter onto the floor, continuing on to dash past Eggsy in a furor of fur.

“Was that a cat?”

Couch-side, a piercing shriek rose above the noise of guns.

“Mr. Doughnut!”

Harry frowned. “Mr. Doughnut?”

“I swear, if you hurt Mr. Doughnut I will kill you.”

“Miss, please-”

“Don’t ‘ _Miss, please_ ’ me! If anyone shoots my fucking cat-that includes you, Trigger Happy-I will end you all.”

The returning fire hesitated as if someone, presumably Trigger Happy, was suddenly considering Marina Vanamo’s capacity for violence.

“Your cat’s fine,” said Harry, loudly enough to be heard over the excitement. “Come out with your hands up, and he’ll stay that way.”

“Get bent, motherfuckers!”

Harry sat back down. “I-How rude.”

And then a shot rang out much closer than it should have, and Harry clutched his chest and said, quietly; “Oh.”

Eggsy fired at the mobster who had snuck around the side of the room, hoping offhandedly that the suits were as bullet-proof as promised.

He hoped this for about five seconds, at which point he didn’t have to anymore because he knew exactly how bullet-proof they were.

“Fuck! Ow!”

“Right, I’m pulling the plug,” said Merlin firmly, which was probably a good, albeit somewhat disappointing, call. “Get to the service elevator. Floor 4, room 462. Extraction will proceed from- _Harry_.”

There was a blur next to Eggsy, which he belatedly recognized as Harry jumping the counter. Eggsy stood up-screw bullets, he wanted to _see_ this-in time to watch Harry clear the overturned couch, and then, using the Vanamo sister’s shoulders, vault _through the window_.

For a moment there was a shocked (and begrudgingly impressed) silence.

And then Marina Vanamo stood up, leaned out of the gaping hole that used to be her sister’s penthouse window, and yelled, “Call me!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heh. 
> 
> Updates should be quicker from this point on. These past few chapters have been tough because there are a lot of characters and there's a lot of action. Got the framework for the rest of it though!
> 
> As usual, thanks to everyone leaving comments and kudos. You're keeping me going through midterms.


	10. Chapter 10

HOUR 10

* * *

 

Several minutes, some creative running, and one very long elevator ride later, Eggsy approached room 462, floor 4, with some trepidation.

“You sure he’s in there, Merlin?”

“I’m sure the tracker in his suit exited the penthouse, reentered the building via the 18th floor balcony, and made a quick detour to the penthouse again before landing, currently, in room 462.”

“What about the tracker in his glasses?”

“ . . . Well.”

“Well?”

“They must fallen off when he jumped.”

“Are they on the balcony?”

“They’re . . . they’re a lot of places. The sidewalk. The road. The bottoms of shoes.”

“Fills me with reassurance, that does.”

“I do my best.”

Eggsy pushed open the door. To his eternal relief, Harry, his suit, and all four of his limbs were sitting on a lounge chair near the window, with his feet up on the ottoman. Eggsy had been planning to say something witty to hide his genuine concern, like, "So you made it then," or, "About time," but a small mass in the middle of the room caught his eye and instead he said, “Is that Mr. Doughnut?”

Mr. Doughnut eyed him warily and licked its fur.

“Yes," said Harry, without looking up. "Grabbed him on my way out.”

Now that he was closer, Eggsy could see that Harry had not escaped his stunt immaculately intact, as he had secretly suspected. A large rip stretched from his shoulder and disappeared at his back, and he appeared to be favoring his left arm, cradling it subtly with his right. Between that, his soon-to-be black eye, actually getting shot, and what must have been enough alcohol to tranquilize a small elephant, it appeared that the night-or technically, early morning-was finally catching up with him.

“Quick thinking, tagging the mark like that.”

“Thanks."

“Got her shoulder on the way out, then?”

“I did.”

And then, because Harry looked like he had already mentally checked out of the mission, Eggsy asked, “Merlin, extraction?”

“It’s underway. A car should meet you around the back in ten minutes. I’m signing off now. I’m sure you two can handle yourselves from this point.”

“We can. Thanks.”

“Good job, Eggsy.”

It was unexpected sincerity, coming from Merlin, and Eggsy was stunned out of his irreverence.

“Thank you, sir.”

There was a soft beep as the comms were switched off.

Eggsy slipped his glasses into his pocket, glanced towards the in-suite bar, thought better of it, and sat on the edge of the bed. He realized all of a sudden how late it was, and how sore he was going to be in the morning. It was _that_ part of the night-the part where you get sick in the flowerbed and confront your girlfriend about kissing your best friend, and experience a slow, drunken dread as you remember that your actions tonight will have consequences tomorrow. 

“We should go, if you’re quite finished with your drunken rampage.”

“Almost. Shoot that cat.”

Eggsy paused, wondering which word he had misheard. “What?”

“Shoot the cat.”

Eggsy looked at Mr. Doughnut, who meowed. Then he looked at Harry, had turned from the view of the London skyline to stare him straight in the eye.

“ . . . Why?”

“Just shoot the fucking cat, Eggsy. For God’s sake. Please.” In the space of one line he went from bordering on angry, or as angry as Eggsy had ever seen him, to uncharacteristically desperate, and then finally at ‘please’ he rubbed his face with his hand and the energy drained from his stance and he just looked tired. Usually, Harry’s emotional cycle seemed to be stuck on a continuous loop of “annoyed” and “smug,” but mild, always mild, which was why this particular look made up of one-hundred percent unadulterated something hit Eggsy like a punch to the gut.

Harry Hart did not have cracks. It was not his way.

_It’s the vodka._

“Harry,” Eggsy began, cautiously. “What so important about the cat?”

He said nothing and turned back to the window. Eggsy often lacked a certain amount of tact, but he knew that this was not about a cat at all, not really, and that he was treading on something fragile he didn’t understand, so he was silent and examined his shoes.

He must be so alone, Eggsy realized. Not lonely, not necessarily, not _always,_ but very much alone.

After a moment, Harry stood up. He seemed to rally himself for one last time tonight, stretching his arms and slipping off his ripped jacket, before giving a decisive nod in Eggsy’s general direction.

“Let’s go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should be writing cover letters and/or sleeping, and yet here we are.


	11. Chapter 11

HOUR 11

* * *

 

The first rays of sun were breaching the morning sky by the time Harry unlocked his front door and stepped aside to let Eggsy in.

“Tea?” Harry threw his jacket on the couch and headed into the kitchen. Lazy, as there were coat hooks on the hallway wall, but it was past five in the morning and they were both beyond caring so Eggsy excused it. He was graciously pretending not to notice Harry’s limp, as Harry was pretending not to notice his.

Realizing that he was almost as hungry as he was tired, Eggsy called, “Please.”

The kitchen was spotless, much like the rest of Harry’s house. Eggsy pulled himself up onto the counter, cringing as he was painfully reminded about being shot in the arm.

“You stole my gun.”

“What?”

Harry set the timer on the electric kettle and turned to lean against the opposite counter. “My railgun. You were using it, back at the hotel.”

“Yeah. Swiped it while you were pouring the Crystal Head.”

“How dare you,” said Harry with absolutely no conviction or threat of consequence.

“To be honest, I didn’t expect to get away with it. And then I did and I thought, I thought, ‘Harry’s pissed. He’s absolutely gone.’ So I figured I’d need it later anyway.”

“Reasonable, I suppose. _Shit_.”

“What?”

“The guns. Left them out. They’re still in the living room.”

“Leave ‘em. Deal with it tomorrow.”

“I really shouldn’t.”

“Come on, mate. Who’s going to take them?”

Harry waited.

“Ah,” conceded Eggsy. “Okay. Fine.”

The living room seemed to be in worse of a state than they had left it, although Eggsy admitted that may have been the effects of alcohol wearing off. The black metal cases sat amidst a collection of glasses and bottles, in various states of completion.

“Bye, beautiful.” He looked sadly at the railgun before slipping it back into its case.

“Attached to that, are you?”

“Very much. Make it my Kingsman graduation gift?”

“Not a chance.”

They each took a case, hauling them up the wooden stairs.

“Jesus, how did you carry both of these down here alone?” Eggsy said, struggling to pull his past the first floor landing.

“It helps to be sober. Also, not being shot.” Harry led him to the end of the hallway and turned into the last room, which must have been his bedroom. A panel in the wall, right above the headboard, was slid open, revealing a hidden compartment.

“Not the old ‘secret safe behind a painting’ trick?”

“There are only so many ways to hide a square meter of weaponry in your London townhouse.” Harry kicked off his shoes and climbed on the bed, pulling the case up with him and lifting it carefully into the compartment.

"Yeah but,” started Eggsy, working on his own shoes, which were unfortunately laced and un-kick-off-able. “If someone were to break into this place looking for weapons, where’s the first place they would look?”

“Presumably, if they’re breaking into this house they know who I am and what I do, and either brought their own weapons or won’t make it past the front door.”

Eggsy, now standing on the bed, helped Harry push the second case, which was a bit stuck, into the wall safe.

“I hope you at least,” Eggsy said, panting, “Have a good lock, like a thirty-digit passcode or a fingerprint scanner or- _damn it to hell, Harry_ ,” he finished, as Harry typed 0000 into the safe’s code lock.

“It’s-” He jumped down from the bed, stumbled slightly into a dresser, knocked over a vase, caught it, and set it back carefully on the dresser. “-the principle. Diminishing returns. Having a good passcode only marginally improves your security, relative to having a safe in the first place.”

It was an appropriate if unoriginal painting, Eggsy supposed. He wouldn’t have mentioned it if he’d seen it on the wall, except maybe to point out Harry’s inclination for irony. A knight, dressed in white metal armor, sat atop a black horse. Both of them were set against the background of a forest.

“Seriously?” he asked, as Harry carried the painting back to the bed. “A self-portrait?”

“Shut up and grab the other end. The frame, not the canvas.”

Together they maneuvered the painting back into its place on the wall, covering up the safe. Harry stared at it for a minute, before carefully lying down on the bed.

“Well.”

Eggsy joined him.

It was light out now; there was no denying that even by the loosest definition, it was Tuesday morning rather than Monday night.

“You know,” said Eggsy, interrupting the silence. “I think I could do this forever.”

“Manual labor?”

“No, the whole spy thing. Like, I’m good at it, and I like it. Harry, I think I’ll make a damn good spy.”

“Yes, well.”

“Think I’ll pass? The Kingsman test, I mean.”

“ _Shit._ ”

“What?”

“The tea.” A faint shrill whistling echoed from downstairs.

“Fuck the tea.”

For a moment Harry looked as if he was about to get up, and then relaxed. “Okay. Fuck the tea.”

After a while he shrugged off his suit jacket, and Eggsy did the same. There was a little bit of blood and a significant amount of dirt on the comforter, but Harry didn’t mention it so Eggsy didn’t either.

They were tired. They were beyond tired. They had passed the boundary of tired somewhere in the hotel and had come out the other side, running entirely on alcohol and adrenaline. Eggsy felt himself drifting off. His legs were done moving for the day. He was sleeping now, and he was sleeping here.

“You know,” Harry began. “If only by natural selection, most of the people in this line of work are meticulous, patient, thorough, and generally on-edge. It’s good for the field when everything is high stakes, but over time it can . . . wear you down. Every so often I’ve got to be reckless, if only to prove that I still can. But dragging you into my midlife crisis was a bit much, if I’m being honest. I’ve almost run out of Unwins to pledge my eternal debt to.”

It was probably as sincere a confession as he'd ever get. He treasured it, tucked it away for later.

“It’s fine, mate. We’re cool. We’re a good team.”

“I suppose we are.”

The down comforter was soft and warm and Eggsy couldn’t gather the energy to move under it, so he pulled the edge up over his shoulders. It probably should have been strange, but it wasn’t. Once you’ve murdered people together, sleeping next to each other is almost an afterthought. 

“It’s not my car.”

“What?”

“The Ferrari. It’s not mine.”

“Did you steal it?”

“No. It’s a rental. Bentley’s in the shop.”

Eggsy took a moment to marvel at how lucky he was, to be here instead of anywhere else. He would have laughed, if he felt his chest was up for it. Instead, he moved up against Harry’s side and poked his arm.

“Hey.”

“Mmm?”

“Sleeping together on the first mission? Didn’t know you were that kind of guy.”

“Eggsy, I swear.”

“Next time then.”

Harry hesitated before answering. “Next time.”

* * *

 

HOURS 12-20

* * *

 

And they slept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this is the longest chapter so far. This isn't over, although it's nearing its end. The next chapters will serve as kind of epilogue-al bits. <3

**Author's Note:**

> My writing blog is decotext.tumblr.com, so bother me for updates there. 
> 
> Slight edit: Updates frequently.


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